


The Wrong Idea Left Behind

by yesterday4



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-01
Updated: 2005-11-01
Packaged: 2018-12-09 10:56:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11667711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yesterday4/pseuds/yesterday4
Summary: Forpumahmistress, who requested a drabble with the line, "And through the darkness, he could see her naked skin like purest ivory against blackest velvet."  Obviously I suck at drabbles because this turned into a rather angsty one shot.  Post war.  :)  Andjuju_beanfor pointing out a little error.  Whoops!  ;)





	The Wrong Idea Left Behind

Title: The Wrong Idea Left Behind  
Author: Edie  
Rating: R  
Disclaimer: Not mine. :)  
Summary: For [](http://pumahmistress.livejournal.com/profile)[**pumahmistress**](http://pumahmistress.livejournal.com/) , who requested a drabble with the line, "And through the darkness, he could see her naked skin like purest ivory against blackest velvet." Obviously I suck at drabbles because this turned into a rather angsty one shot. Post war. :) And [](http://juju-bean.livejournal.com/profile)[**juju_bean**](http://juju-bean.livejournal.com/) for pointing out a little error. Whoops! ;)

 

  
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The Wrong Idea Left Behind

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Hermione Granger is a terrible cook, even if she won’t admit it. She attacks it with the same gusto she uses on everything, however, and it attacks Draco’s stomach with equal fervor. Heart aches and intestines burn but he smiles and pushes on because she’s beautiful and sad and she won’t talk about it. Always knows when she’s upset, he does. Smells waft down the hallway from the door of his flat and- _always_ a moment where he deliberates take out- she only cooks exotic food when she’s distressed.

 

Normally it’s just regular food, the two of them balancing plates and cramped together on the couch, feet propped all over his favourite table. “The food Muggle college students eat,” she told him once, brandishing a fork covered in instant rice. Just add water, zap it in the microwave, what the fuck ever. Even a spoiled little boy used to house elves can do _that_.

 

Sometimes she cries when they’re doing the dishes. He always pretends not to notice. Didn’t once and she almost chucked a plate at his head in her horrified embarrassment. She’s broken but she doesn’t want it acknowledged and he gets that. When she starts to sniffle, he passes her the dish soap and continues the monotonous scrubbing.

 

Voldemort is dead and they are so fucking normal now that it’s killing him. How many of them in total, all so he can shove his pureblooded hands into dishwater that smells of grease and grit while his girlfriend tries not to cry behind the stove? Fucking pathetic.

 

*

 

Sometimes after she showers, she’ll come into his bedroom and simply climb on top of him, pressing her wet little self all over his back. Water drips down onto his sheets and flattens his hair and he could care less, as long as the small hands stroking up and down his sides never stop; as long as he’ll always be able to feel her face nuzzling against the back of his neck.

 

She smells like soap and heaven and he wants her to push down so hard that she’ll simply invade his body and become him. Is so fucking sick of being himself.

 

Eventually, he rolls over and she is so _amazing_ moving on top of him. Body is slippery, tiny hands are wet and falsely delicate, and other parts are like that too… beautiful parts that clench and unclench as he moves up into her.

 

When he feels like he’s going to break, the crazy girl smiles. Cocks her head and beams down at him because _this_ isn’t pathetic; this is worth it.

 

*

 

A Ministry function and Draco hates those. Doesn’t like moving around the crowd and mingling, the reluctant hero to the very end. He can’t stand the toasts; the speeches. Can’t stand seeing all of these people again. There’s Harry and Ginny, smiling and holding hands. The Boy Wonder, basking in all of his glory. Ron as well, with a very pregnant Lavender grasping onto his arm. So well adjusted, they all seem, each and every one of them except for him and his beautifully broken girl.

 

They don’t talk much at Ministry functions. He isn’t sure which one of them started the game but they continue to pretend they don’t give two shits about each other, even though everybody knows she practically lives at his flat and he couldn’t _live_ period without her. They snark and they snap and they fight near the punch stand over the rights of prisoners of war, but he doesn’t call her Mudblood. Never calls her Mudblood anymore because he’s had blood on his hands- he’s had blood _everywhere_ ; he’s fucking covered in it even now- and not once was it dirty. Morbidly breathtaking even, thick as it drained from whomever. Always warm, it was, just like her hands when she tries to rub away his pain. Doesn’t call her Mudblood because he doesn’t want to _think_ of her blood draining. Period.

 

Hermione is always there, though. When the speeches turn to how brave he was to turn his back on his heritage; to leak them information crucial to their victory and he feels like vomiting up expensive wine all over the place, she brushes his thigh underneath the table. He brushes hers back and catches her hand and the world stops spinning because she is so fucking _good_ despite everything. So pure in her ideals and so set in her ways. So what if she cries and cooks awful food? He doesn’t care.

 

She is his salvation and later, when he pulls her inside a broom closet because he can’t _take_ the meaningless words and empty pats on his back any longer, she is warmer even than blood, all around him. Surrounding him. He comes moaning her name, voice shattered and waving up and down all over the place.

 

When they exit the closet, they smile at Lavender and her protruding belly and laugh with Ron while Draco thinks his own version of bliss is so much better. So much more _real_ than white picket fences that can’t possibly exist.

 

*

 

Draco’s bed is a yawning black mass of fabric. He has done his whole flat up very modern and expensive, but his bedroom is another story. Dark gruesome artwork covers his walls and the paint behind it seems blacker than midnight. Hermione hates his room but she never asks him to change it. He thinks it gives her the creeps to sleep there with smiling pictures of destruction gazing down at her but he’ll keep her safe from all of that now. Has to because without her- good God, what a horrible thought- he thinks he’ll pitch himself right off the roof of the nearest building. His soul is too twisted and he can’t untangle it. Doesn’t want to untangle it because pain is _good_ but maybe he can twist it with her own and they’ll be trapped together forever, too bound up in each other to ever find the way out.

 

She can’t find the way out. She can’t know how bad he really is. She can’t know anything about that because she can’t take her light away.

 

Tonight when they make love, it isn’t really that. It’s something darker and heavier, not _fucking_ exactly because Draco hates that word in connotation with her. They claw at each other desperately and he feels like she wants under his very skin. Wishes she’d scratch harder and draw blood. Wants his chest marked and bleeding, a cascade of brilliant red against the white. But she doesn’t- won’t let the ugliness _out_ \- and he loves her too much (needs her, wants her, fucking… _is_ her) to ask it of her. She’s the only girl he’s ever finished himself off inside of and aren’t the reasons for that so fucking complicated that they make his head hurt? Is it because he loves her? He does but he’s always been a selfish shit and maybe a very tiny part of him wants to rub the ugliness off. Leave a little bit of it behind because only _she_ can destroy it. Or maybe he wants to sully her too. Whatever.

 

Head pounding and body pounding and he’s _throbbing_ everywhere. She is done first, gasping and writhing beneath him. He wonders if she thinks of dying when it comes upon her. Only the dead can contort their faces like that; only the dead know the line between absolute bliss and sheer terror. Will this gasp be her last? Will he be there for it? Holds her tighter and then he’s done too.

 

Later on, he pulls away from her and gazes down at her in his bed. That bushy hair that he secretly adores is taking over his pillow and her mouth is parted a little. Snoring. He smiles to himself and reaches out to push his hand through her hair. Best of all though is this: he can see her naked skin like the purest ivory against the blackest velvet, and everything about that thought is so fucking _right_. Thinks of the Weasel and the imminent arrival of his baby and wonders what would happen if they brought one into the world as well. Touches her stomach lightly and feels so many things that he feels nothing at all.

 

Then her eyes are open and blinking drowsily.

 

“Draco?” she murmurs, voice heavy with sleep, “Come closer. It’s cold.”

 

He complies, always complies, and wraps her up securely in his arms. Silly naïve girl because she cuddles right in, almost as though she doesn’t believe in all the bad and awful things he’s done. Like she feels _safe_ in his destruction.

 

He’s too much of a git to tell her anything else.


End file.
